Eyes Hold The Window To The Soul
by pluckingpearls
Summary: Romano lost his eyes in battle, and it will be centuries before he is able to see again. But he lets Spain take his hand, to help teach him the delicate art. . . of touch. Spain/Romano. M for soon to be chapters.
1. Remembrance

_ Funny enough, I started out not liking Spamano all that much. Romano seemed far too whiney and "tsundere" to me and I thought Spain (although ditzy at times) didn't deserve to put up with all the abuse that fans made him go through shipping them together. And then I realized that Spain was just was Romano needed - a gentle, kind soul to encourage him to soften. In a way, Spain needed Romano too: to teach him to grow a backbone. I guess I'll use this space (also) to thank all of you who review and even read! It means quite a lot to me, mainly because I muse that all these stories are really endless crap I keep throwing out into this community that's tired of me already._

**EHWS**

Romano could remember certain things about before. He could remember the Spanish sunsets. He could remember green eyes. He could remember ripe tomatoes.

But what he could remember most was battles. He remembered blood and metal and gunpowder. He remembered foreign words ripped from foreign mouths as death with his sickle laid his damnation down.

He remembered his name, called by a man he knew to a fault, before everything went dark. His fingers remember grasping, dully, silently screaming at empty sockets that once contained something so dear to him. He was still sobbing when he felt hands come over his, forced him to stay still as shock grabbed hold of him and made him shudder back and forth, back and forth.

_**Romano. **_

The voice was in his ears somewhere, beyond the rough calloused skin of a Spaniard and shots and clashing metal. A shot went off dangerously close to his ears and he screamed again, struggling against the arms, attempting to escape. Tears dripped onto his lips, along with a more metallic and saltier substance he instantly knew was supposed to be blood. Blood should have tasted the same no matter where it came from. Blood from a split lip tasted the same as blood from a broken tooth which tasted the same as blood from a thorn prick.

But blood this time tasted of something horrid enough to make him want to retch onto his boots. He gagged, but the hands never let him go, if anything they tightened their grip around his face.

_**Romano. **_

The voice again. It sounded so familiar, so wounded, and yet so foreign to him. All there was, was darkness. He couldn't find his way out of it, and it dug its dark claws into his head, as if attempting to force him into madness. He wanted to vomit, and yet he couldn't make himself do so. The same horrid liquid that should have been blood seeped into his mouth through his cracked lips and still the hands and arms never left him.

"_Nostro Padre che sei nei paradiso-" _

His voice didn't sound right between his lips. It sounded hollow in his prayer, tears dripping from an unseen void through his cheeks into his skull.

_"Santificato il tuo nome-"_

_**Romano stop it. **_

___"Tua regno vieni-"_

_**Romano, please. **_

_ "La tua volontà sia fatta sulla terra come essa è in paradiso-"_

_**Romano!**_

__Everything was so deadly silent suddenly Romano could almost hear his own sobs breaking the ribs in his side.

Did he lose his hearing too? The sudden and startling lack of sight damaging his ear drums as well?

Creeping feelings of insanity dug their claws into Romano's body. It dragged his body into the ground dizzily, even as he was held up by strong hands. Everything hurt and the darkness became more and more real with every passing second as he lay inside it, writhing in his own sudden guilt and pain.

It swallowed him up with a gulp and he festered in it until the darkness became too real and he succumbed, willingly, to its acidic consumption.

**EHWS**

When Romano awoke, he couldn't tell if it was morning, afternoon, evening or night. Dizzily he sat up, leaving the comfort of pillows behind and felt something claw at him yet again in the darkness. It still hurt to breathe, as if his lungs had collapsed inside of him, leaving his chest hollow and without air.

He suddenly became aware of fabric restricting his view, and his heart slowed paces significantly. Perhaps it had all being a terror-ridden nightmare and the reason for his sudden lack of vision was because his brain mistook reality for imaginary dream states.

Quickly Romano found hold and ripped the layers away from his eyes as fast as he could. But the light never came. It remained dark even when Romano knew that daylight (or some sort of light) should have been coming through the thin layers of fabric.

Suddenly a hand was over his, jolting Romano back into the memories of his dreams. The hands were rough and calloused and smelled of years of spices and yard work.

"Spain?"

Romano had never felt as unstable as he did in that moment, tears threatening on the verge of his lids.

"Romano. . ."

The pallor in his voice was enough to make Romano's heart choke him again. His tone promised nothing good, and yet there was still part of Romano that grasped hold of the idea that he was only see-less because of the fabric and if only Spain would let him remove the entirety of the thing, he could look at him with the same condescending look as normal and tell him to get the fuck out of his house.

"Spain, what's going on?" he asked, quietly, as if that would make a difference to Spain's answer.

But his friend was silent as the dead, and Romano felt the insanity take hold, making him see things in the abyss that grasped at his dead heart and left him weak.

"Spain! Answer me you bastard!" he cried, voice stronger now, grasping at the hands over his eyes.

But the fingers, if anything, tightened a fraction around his skull, as if to attempt to keep him from ripping them away.

"_Spain!" _

There was a long sigh and then the hands that had stopped Romano slowly began unraveling the fabric themselves, pulling it away as Romano sat in quiet and frustrated silence.

"I'm blind." Romano whispered, pulling his hands up to his eyes, or lack thereof. He felt the outer rims of his lids with his fingers, never daring to go farther for he feared he might become physically sick with the lack of what should have been there.

"Cut. . . ."

It seemed to be hard for Spain to go on, but when Romano felt the tears that had welled up spill over his cheeks, Spain continued.

"They were cut by one of Francis's soldiers. He has been killed, I can assure you. But the doctors were not able to save your eyes Romano. They were far too damaged. In order to prevent infection they had to remove them completely."

Spain was forlorn. The happy go lucky bastard who had nagged at Romano for the majority of his life was. . . unreachable.

It seemed futile to ask, but Romano couldn't help the words that next spilled from his mouth.

"Will they grow back?"

It was a stupid question. All laws of biology and anatomy told him that it was. Human bodies did not grow back body parts once they were maimed.

Spain was quiet.

"Will they grow back Spain? I'm a nation, they have to grow back!"

"It will take centuries Romano. Decades at best." he finally responded.

"But they will grow back." Romano said, closing his lids and probing at the empty flesh underneath them.

He let his hands fall and he felt Spain catch one, bringing it up to his mouth and pressing it gently to his lips. Romano for once didn't pull his hand away. For once in his long, long life, he wasn't angry. He couldn't force himself to feel frustrated with Spain, and he couldn't force himself to feel angry. There was just this emptiness that had made his chest cave in on him. He could only focus his energies on not collapsing in on himself, and if Spain wanted to kiss the knuckles on his hand, then let it be.

Spain almost seemed to sense this, and Romano felt his hot breath move away from his knuckles and let his hand drop.

"I'm so very tired." Romano whispered, letting himself fall back onto the bed, and he curled up into himself, feeling so utterly defeated sleep was the only positive thing about the entire ordeal.

Sleep, however, was not merciful to him. Sleep plagued him with night terrors so frightening he woke suddenly in the darkness, choking on air and Spain holding his arms back so that he wouldn't hurt himself. Romano had never felt so utterly terrified in his entire life, so utterly terrified that he surrendered to the rocking motions of his body to comfort him. At some point in the night (or early morning Romano, for years, would never be able to tell), he stood and paced. By morning his hips were bruised from walking into nightstands and the edge of the bed, and his lips and the inside of his cheeks were chewed red and raw and bloody.

No one did anything to stop Romano as he wandered the halls of his house, losing himself in the mansions twisting hallways he once knew so well. His thighs and shins were bruised from askew chair legs and table corners, his toes stubbed over and over to the point that they turned black and blue and Spain finally had to force him to bed to keep him from injuring himself any further.

__Romano was never truly the same again.

**EHWS**

_This was getting a bit longer than intended so I decided "Well, why not just split it up into a chapter story! A bit easier to read as well, right?"_

_ So that's what I did. I hope you don't mind, but because I did this, I might update this a bit more frequently. . . ? It's a lot easier to write three pages and post it than wait until it's all done at 30 pages and god knows how many words. _


	2. Turmoil Emotions

_Wow you guys! I got such a great reception to the first chapter I suppose I'll post this other chapter now! You guys really do spoil me don't you Jesus. You are all truly lovely. Many thanks to: Pan The Fire Eater, AbsoluteAddiction-x, pudgypanda456, Fujoshi Anonim, Chocotaku, and Windup-Charmer for the fantastic reviews. This chapter goes out to you guys. _

**EHWS**

It was many months before Romano's melancholy and pride diminished enough that he was willing to let someone lead him out and around, or teach him the art of using a cane to find his way around things. Spain frequented his house more than before Romano was blinded, but Spain's subdued nature was starting to rub Romano the wrong way, tired of everyone else "Trying to help me around my own god damn house where I've only lived here _centuries _Jesus Christ~"

But, unlike his familiar nature around the house attendants, those maids and butlers who were observant in their nature noticed his softer nature toward his former boss. Romano relented to Spain and only Spain's arm when he offered to lead him around. The new maids working about giggled with a twinkle in their eye when they saw their employer arm in arm with his former boss, and only returned to their chores after they passed.

Less curses were murmured in the garden when Spain was around, deftly leading his former colony around the poison ivy and rose bushes, almost hell bent on tripping up their owner in his oblivious state.

"_Roma, _it doesn't help to curse the plants. They are just more willing to trip you next time."

Romano turned his head toward his partner, wishing he could pull away from the arm around his to show Spain he didn't need his stupid help, but he knew it would only lead him to stumble into the poison ivy or rose bushes that seemed to have sprung up everywhere in his absence.

The reason he knew this was that it had happened only once before and he was condemned to his bed with sores and puncture wounds for close to a month, and ever since his accident. . . He could stand to be in bed no longer than the eight hours he needed to get sleep, and even then it was scattered about. Night terrors and nightmares had not ceased in their taunting of him, dreams where everything is dark and yet something is so terribly off he wakes with a pain in his chest and a scream caught in his throat.

Finally they reached Romano's favorite bench (by default, from Spain leading him here everyday for a few weeks) where Romano could smell everything. He could sit here for hours and still not yet pinpoint all the fragrances the flowers had to offer.

Romano never would have thought himself a lover of flowers, but when his sight had suddenly been cut from him, his other senses picked up the slack. Romano could smell roses down at the one end of the garden, and the wet smell of sunflowers at the other end.

"What is that one?" he asked, pointing in the general direction of a flower he had never smelt before-one certainly not native to his land.

"Aha, Roma, you seem to have noticed the lavender. I had it planted there this morning."

"Over seeing my garden now, are you? Don't I have a choice in anything anymore?" he asked, a bit bitterly, shaking his arm out of Spain's.

"You can have a choice in what we are having for dinner."

Romano furrowed his brow but said nothing about the tone of Spain's voice.

"However," Spain added after a moment, letting his hot, callused hand land on Romano's knee, "if you say anything other than paella I'm going to have to tell you no."

Romano would have rolled his eyes if he could, but he didn't shake off Spain's hand this time.

"Very funny, _Espa__ñ__a. _You have the best sense of humor I could kill myself laughing."

Spain laughed that time, and Romano felt it shaking even through his hand to his knee. Romano let his hand slide up and over Spain's, out of simple curiosity. Now, at the very least, he had an excuse to touch Spain, if only to tell him he just wanted to know where he was.

Spain, however, flipped his hand and let his fingers fall between Romano's, squeezing roughly.

Romano, startled, attempted to draw his hand back but found that Spain's long fingered grip on his hand was not going to let up on his own without a bit of persuasion.

"Why are you holding my hand?" Romano asked, quietly, praying that the gardeners weren't lurking around to see the flush that was surely upon his cheeks.

"Because I can. I feel that I can not show you any other form of affection otherwise."

Romano grew stiff and stood up immediately, Spain relinquishing his grip if he didn't want to be tugged up with Romano.

"I think I'll go get washed up for dinner." Romano said, turning in what he hoped was the direction of the house and walking slowly, but deliberately away. Only as the toe of his boot became lodged underneath a root did he realize he was heading the wrong way, only to hear Spain close behind him, catching him around his waist.

"Don't walk so far away without your cane. You almost fell face first into a pile of poison ivy and roses."

His breath was so close to his ear, so quiet and gentle Romano felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

They stood there, longer than Romano would have originally allowed. But there was fire suddenly pumping through his veins, and his body refused to move from the tantalizing embrace of Spain's arm.

And then, in an instant, there was the sound of a butler clearing his throat, and Romano pulled away, cheeks burning so hot he felt as if he had a sunburn, and he straightened, turning in the direction of the sound.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Dinner is served." the butler answered, but his tone held something quiet in it, something that made Romano's body burn everywhere with embarrassment, and, dare he say it, something else. Something much more.

Something that scared him.

**EHWS**

Dinner was a tense, but quiet affair. Almost immediately afterwards Romano bid Spain and everyone else goodnight, retrieving his cane from the hall where he had left it last. Romano could have made it to his room well enough with out it, but it gave him an excuse to hear what the maids and butlers were murmuring about in the kitchen.

". . . taking advantage of it."

"I don't know, he seems to enjoy it. Just this afternoon. . ."

"Oh, don't go on would you? He's just the same, just sightless. His demeanor-"

"Haven't you noticed? He's quieter with Signor Antonio around. He lets himself be led by him. He doesn't let anyone else do that, not even his _fratello_. He's turned soft hearted, you know he has."

"He's still the same to everyone else."

Then, a soft, bell voice interrupted the clamor, rendering everyone silent.

"Something happened on that battle field between Signor Antonio and Signorino Romano more than his loss of sight. Something changed. Whether it be night terrors, Signor Antonio is more accessible and less judgmental these days. He has changed. I believe he believes Signorino's loss of sight as his own fault. It is no surprise that their feelings are starting to show."

Romano's breath heaved in his chest as he vaulted for the staircase, hurrying up them, cane tracing lines to make sure in his haste he wouldn't knock into a chair or table.

Once in his room, Romano threw his cane on the bed and drew himself a bath for once. It did not smell as nicely as it would have if he had asked one of his maids to do it for him, but the water was hot and that was all he needed.

Stripping himself down, he stepped into the bath, disregarding the fact that it scalded his skin and instead letting it milk the sore and stiffness out of his muscles.

Everything had changed since he had lost his sight. Everything. Spain's treatment of him, demeanor, proximity. . .

Romano reminded himself to get the gardeners to remove the poison ivy in a garden at a faster rate. He would have to ask them to poison the hell out of it, and he would rather have all the flowers in the garden die than to be caught so desperately between Spain and his own turmoil emotions again.


	3. Disastrous Messes

_ I truly, honestly do not deserve all this praise you guys are giving me. You are all too lovely in your own good, and amazing writers as well. Special thanks to wined-fox6044, Fujoshi Anonim, MissAnnette, sasukes gurl forever, .., AbsoluteAddiction-x, MinakoEguchi, Chocotaku. You guys make me think this is worth it!_

_Also, please forgive me if Britney Spears' 'Till The World Ends' inspired this chapter, because sometimes I just need to get my Brit on when writing scenes such as these. . . _

**EHWS**

The morning was a hot and muggy one. Cicadas chirped rapidly and unseen in the trees, chattering birds everywhere else relishing in the heat.

Romano threw himself out of bed, sheets sticking to his thighs, and washed a hand over his worn face, probing at his empty lids. He could feel the heat from the windows splay across his naked back.

It was oddly quiet and as he dressed himself and head downstairs.

He could hear noise in the kitchen, and smelled churro's being cooked, and then, and only then, could he smell Spain. It was so full of grass and lower perfume and a hint of cinnamon, it could have been no one else.

"Spain?" he asked, past memories of a kitchen full of Spain's presence and his smell flashed through Romano's head.

"Romano, how are you?" was the quiet response, and that was when Romano knew something was really off. The butlers and maids and servants where nowhere to be found, or heard.

"Spain, what's going on?" he asked, reaching for the doorway in order to steady himself.

Suddenly Spain's voice was coming from behind him, his cinnamon breath on his neck, chest pressed against his back.

"Spain-" Romano's tone was warning him, this time more deadly than others as Spain's arm snaked around his waist, and an explosion of tango flashed behind his eyes and in his ears as Spain ground his hips into Romano backside, teeth nipping at his ear, and letting his other arm come up the front of Romano's pants until he found his cock, stroking it up and down.

Romano threw his other arm up to place it on the other side of the door frame in order to steady himself and to keep himself from grinding backwards or forwards.

He was almost ashamed to say he was hard in seconds.

But there was an almost in there because despite his frustration at Spain for being so damn close to him and eliciting the obvious sexual tension, he couldn't truly be angry at him.

No, because his body was having too good a time.

When Spain threaded his fingers around Romano's button, popping it open, that was when Romano opened his mouth to protest.

But it was useless considering it refused to make any noises other than a breathless moan as Spain drew Romano from his briefs.

And then there was delicious friction, and it radiated heat all the way from between his thighs through his stomach and made him heady. He was vaguely aware of Spain becoming increasingly hard behind him, but he could barely focus enough to _breathe, _let alone help Spain in return.

And he was there so very close as Spain let his index finger rub over the dewy head and-

Romano woke with a start, letting out a hiss as he realized he had messed himself and the wet cotton of his underpants was painful on his still rock-hard erection.

"Fuck fuck fuck." he whispered, listening for any sounds, any at all, before peeling his briefs off and tossing them into a corner somewhere. He felt his way to his dresser, and pulled out another pair, hurrying to the bathroom, and felt his way to the toilet. He searched desperately for a wash cloth, locating a dry one and wet it under the sink, before proceeding to wipe the sweat from his face and neck, and then cleaned himself up. He pulled the new, clean briefs on and hissed as it grazed over his sensitive skin, praying the still throbbing erection would go away.

His face was burning red as he leaned over onto his knees, rubbing the dream from his temples. Why the hell had he had a wet dream over Spain? Of all people. . .

But regardless, it was still the first slightly okay dream he'd had in a while. Usually he woke gasping for breath out of fear but this time. . . It was something on the completely _other _side of the spectrum. It was strange too, in this dream as well he could almost. . . See. It felt as if he just had his eyes closed and just on the other side of his lids was going to be his summer sun-stained kitchen with Spain burning tomatoes in a frying pan, bronze and shirtless after helping with a long day in the fields of picking tomatoes. . .

No. Romano had to stop because it certainly wasn't helping his erection. _God damn it that stupid bastard has me having wet dreams about him, _he thought, angrily and still half-aroused.

_This is not going to happen again, _he assured himself as he stood from the toilet seat and made his way back to his bed, _You hear me unconscious? Not another one of these. _

Instead of changing his sheets Romano simply climbed in the other side, throwing the sheets over the quickly drying. . . Mess.

But, as usual, his unconscious refused to listen to him. He woke in the morning of a vague dream where Spain was going down on him, but thankful to no mess. He also was able to convince one of the younger, newer maids that he had "spilled milk" on his bed sheets, and that he needed her to stick them in the wash as soon as possible.

He successfully avoided Spain for the days after the incident (and considering he told him he shouldn't come over made that easier) but the nights were insufferable. He woke at least once every night with a mess to take care of, and it was times like this when he really, truly missed his sight because he couldn't take care of the mess himself. It had reached a point that the new maid either knew something was up, or actually thought he was that incompetence, and told the staff to "refuse to give him milk because he spills it every single night."

But he couldn't avoid Spain forever. No, of course he couldn't. Because that bastard just refused to leave him alone, even when he needed him to the most.

**EHWS**

_Short filler. I sure do hope you all don't mind. _


	4. Prelude To Touch

I feel as though I tease most of you with that last chapter. Unfortunately, the "real" stuff will probably not happen till later, but not by much. Again, thanks to all those who review! ButterflyFlutterCry, Chocotaku, sauskes gurl forever, Fujoshi Anonim, AbsoluteAddiction-x, MinakoEguchi, & iOtakuIZZY. I also apologize dearly for the late update: the week has been crazy for me!

**EHWS**

He couldn't avoid him forever.

The sound of his voice echoed through his dreams, except this time when he woke up (messed, unfortunately, yet again), he could smell Spain's breath, which meant he could be no more than a few inches from Romano's own face.

"Roma, you've been avoiding me," he murmured.

"You bastard, what are you doing here?" Romano yelped, grappling to make sure the heavy down and silk sheets were covering the mess his dreams had gotten him in, and his erection.

"I came to make sure that you couldn't disappear on me today."

Romano scrambled into a sitting position, pray to the heavens to make him less aroused, if just for this one moment. All that was flashing through his mind was Spain doing dirty, dirty things to him in his dreams, and that certainly wasn't helping his futile attempt to calm down.

"Romano, you're bright red. What's the matter?" The concern in Spain's voice was like a knife in his stomach.

Almost immediately after Spain's words filtered through Romano's ears, he hid his head in his sheets, like a child in trouble.

"Please Spain," he mumbled, praying that he would just leave Romano to his embarrassment.

"Romano, what's the matter?" Spain asked, and when the side of Romano's bed dented under the weight of Spain, Romano almost groaned in frustration

"Spain, just go away. I'm tired, I've just woken up, and you're bothering me already. Just go away."

It was quiet, and then Spain cupped Romano's face in the palm of his hand.

IT startled Romano, just as much of Spain's behavior did recently. He wasn't sure if it was Spain or himself that had changed that made Spain's behavior seem impulsive. He was so much more bold since Romano lost his sight, touching him so suddenly Romano either leaned into it, or pulled away violently.

Now as a moment of the former, before Spain stood and left the room, quietly, as if he had never been there at all.

Quickly Romano jumped out of bed, pulling clothing out of his drawers as best he could.

Then he felt his way towards the door, dizzy with his sudden drop in blood pressure, and pulled open the door, running into Spain's chest.

There was a rumble through it as Spain started laughing.

"Romano, you are dressed oddly. None of your clothing matches." Spain said in explanation, leading Romano by the shoulder gently back into his room, sitting him on the edge of his unmade bed before rummaging through Romano's drawers.

Romano listened to him pull open drawers, but kept an ear on his bed. He was so afraid of Spain pulling back the sheets and finding the slowly drying mess and automatically guessing what it was.

"Hands over head."

Begrudgingly, Romano let Spain take his shirt off of him, feeling like a little child and shivering in the cold air that bit on his still warm bed skin.

"There, much better." Spain answered, his voice rising to above Romano's bed.

Then, in horror, Romano heard Spain move over to the side of his bed and make a confused noise.

"Romano, did you spill something in these sheets? I've heard the maids complaining about you spilling things everywhere recently. . ."

His voice trailed off as Romano continued to sit there, mute in horror and embarrassment.

"Romano is this. . ."

At that Romano stood straight up and fled from the room, shame burning his cheeks and in his eyes. He rammed into so many tables and chairs and doorways he knew he'd have bruises for weeks, but he kept going, anything to get away from Spain who knew what had happened, Spain who wasn't gullible like everyone else (or who didn't humor him).

Before he knew it, he had tripped, and he threw his hands out to keep himself from hurting himself too much, and stumbled down a few steps, before lying out flat on his back. His palms stung and he guessed they were scraped up, but he just lay there, wondering how he could be so fucking stupid all the time.

"Romano!"

He could hear Spain's voice from somewhere, and he sighed, just wanting to go back to sleep and pray it was a dream.

"You're hands are bleeding! What's going on, Jesus, Romano, you can't just go running away like that!"

Spain was yelling but there was deep concern in his voice and before Romano could even take another breath, a maid with click-clack heels was coming up upon them, setting down something hard and wooden.

"This is the First Aid kit. I saw him fall and went to get it."

She sounded out of breath, and Romano hissed as something sharp and bubbling stung through his hands. Then there was the sound of tearing and ripping and then a cooling sensation as an lotion was put on his palms.

"I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry." Romano gasped out at last, and he could feel Spain delicately wrap the tape for the gauze around his thumb.

"Thank you Celina." Spain said, dismissing the maid who then clacked off with what Romano assumed was the First Aid kit.

"There's nothing to be sorry for Romano."

Romano let his hands come up over his eyes (or lack thereof) and pressed his heels into his eyebrows.

"God I am so fucking embarrassed it's ridiculous. I practically want to cry. Please just don't talk about it."

"Don't say things like that. It's nothing to be embarrassed about." Spain said, and the tone of his voice said that he meant it, but all Romano could think was _he know he knows he knows he knows he knows he knows._

Spain grabbed his wrists and arms and pulled Romano up, pressing the gauze gently into his aching hands.

Then he placed Romano's hand around his arm and escorted him out to the garden, Romano's face still burning and wanting to pull away, be resisting the urge. It wasn't worth it getting hurt again.

Spain sat Romano down next to him, and for quite a long time, was completely silent, letting Romano's embarrassment fester, then fade away in waves.

Then: "It's happened to me before."

Romano turned to him, glad the sun obscured the blush still on his cheeks.

"Who was your dream about?"

Spain laughed, and took Romano's wrist, letting his fingers trip over the knuckles of his hand, careful of the injury and gauze.

"Hmm, I'll tell you if you tell me."

Romano flushed and turned away, silent for a long time as he contemplated telling Spain. What would Spain do if he knew that Romano's wet dream had been about him?

"You."

Had those words come from Romano's mouth? His cheeks hurt from being on fire for so long, and he attempted to pull his hand out of Spain's grip as soon as there was a pregnant silence.

But Spain didn't let him pull away, instead, his touch grew lighter on his knuckles, tracing lines over and over again.

"Hmm." he whispered instead, and at that point Romano just wanted to bury his head in his hands and die.

"The wet dream I had once," he finally said, whisper soft as if the gardeners were listening everywhere, "Was the night after you had turned 23. You had gotten so drunk that I had to carry you upstairs into your room and tuck you in for the night. You probably don't remember this but I you beckoned to me and when I leaned down you grabbed the back of my neck and whispered 'I want you to fuck me so hard I can't walk for a week.'"

Romano, startled and more embarrassed that previously, just sat there in shock, unable to form coherent thoughts or words.

"But," Spain started again, thumb starting circle patterns on the large expanse of the back of his hand, "In the moment it took me to get over the bewilderment of the entire thing, and to finally recognize coherent thoughts, you were already sleeping. However, my dreams weren't all that kind to me."

In as many words, Romano realized that Spain had just admitted he had had a wet dream. About him.

"I. . um. ."

Being so utterly speechless made him oblivious to the fact that Spain had stopped rubbing his hand and instead had been pressing kisses to the pads of Romano's fingers. It took until Spain's lips fluttered over the pad of Romano's ring finger that he jumped, something arousing sensitive in the nerves along the rounded end of his finger.

"Romano, let me teach you the art of touch." Spain whispered, withdrawing his mouth from his fingers and hand.

And Romano was hypnotized by the way Spain's fingers tripped up his arm, so delicately, only the hairs on his arm picked up the movement.

Romano was lifted to his feet as Spain latched his arm around Romano's and lead him, quietly, out of the garden.

As soon as Romano felt the coolness of the air on his face, he realized Spain's mouth was at his ear.

"Tonight, _Roma._"

Then he was gone, and Romano was more frustrated than eve, rubbing at his ear and half praying that Spain would leave him alone.

The other half, the half he wouldn't admit to himself, wished he wouldn't.

**EHWS**

_I am so very sorry for the late update. In order to make it up to you guys I'll post something later this week, most likely Saturday. _


	5. Only The Beginning

_Alright so I can't be trusted to make promises. I just suck at fulfilling them. I've just had so much work suddenly piled onto me at once in the past month that I seriously have not gotten around to writing another excerpt of this. I apologize for my long absence. _

_Thank you to Striped-Jeans, XxDamned ForeverXx, ButterflyFlutterCry, MissAnnette, Fujoshi Anonim, Chocotaku, AbsoluteAddiction-x, iOtakuIZZY, ZKlove, & . Your reviews do mean quite a lot to me!_

**EHWS**

_Romano had a dream that night that did not involve his accident or another embarrassing wet dream. In it, he was younger, much younger, crying over burning his fingers on the hot pot of pasta he was trying to make for Boss. There was a rustling from behind him, and then Spain was by his side, lifting his fingers to his lips. _

_ "Did you burn your fingers mi pequeno tomate?"_

_ Romano looked up at Spain's kind face, concerned with the injury on his charge's fingers. _

_ Romano nodded, tearfully, the burn throbbing through his fingers so hot that he just wanted Spain to kiss them better, put some ointment on them and some cold water. _

_ "Alright, come here." Spain said, picking Romano up around his still round middle, setting him on the counter as he went for his bandages and ointment, stored in the cupboard with the spices because Romano always seemed to sustain injuries in the kitchen someway or another. _

_ Carefully, and so gently Romano barely wound have felt it on any other occasion, Spain applied ointment, and wrapped each one of Romaon's burnt fingers with bandages. Sometimes Romano wondered if all the experience with him burning digits, that Spain became an expert at bandaging them. Romano always watched him, so beautifully tying the gauze around his little, little fingers. But, no matter how often he watched him, Romano could never get it just right. His clumsy little fingers made a mess of ointment and gauze where Spain's long fingers sculpted the fabric around each other so simply and smoothly it could last for days. _

_ "There you go Romano. Be careful next time, okay?" Spain asked, looking up at him. It was the same sentence or two every time. "Be more careful next time." _

_ Romano never was. Sometimes he tried to be, but it never worked in his favor. _

_ Ashamed of his clumsy fingers, he looked down at his lap, his fingers already cooling, thumbs rolling circles around each other. _

_ "Romano?" Spain asked. _

_ "I'm sorry Spain." Romano said, feeling tears burn as he gulped his sobs back._

_ "Sorry for what?" Spain asked, and Romano could feel his eyes on his head, attempting to persuade him to look back up._

_ "Sorry that you're such a bastard!" Romano cried instead, wriggling out of Spain's grip and jumping from the counter, twisting his ankle slightly in the process. But he ran away anyway, out into the garden, hiding himself among the tomato plants as per usual. _

_ When Spain didn't come after him, Romano plopped down onto the hot ground, and looked at his fingers. Spain was so elegant and beautiful and here he was, this plump little maid who loved him more than he wanted to admit. How Spain put up with him, he didn't know. _

_ All he knew was that sometimes he didn't burn his fingers on accident. Sometimes he did it so he could feel Spain's fingers wrap around his in a delicate dance that left his fingers wrapped in beauty. _

**EHWS**

Romano woke with a gasp from the memory, presented as a dream. Had he managed to fall so deep asleep in the afternoon siesta? He still had his clothes on, and this was the first time he had dreamt about something other than wet Spain dreams, or the unseen horrors about his lack of sight. It was. . . rather pleasant compared to his other dreams, and he was just glad not to wake up wet or stuck in a rut of absolute terror.

There was a polite knock on the door, and Romano concluded that that was what had woken up.

"_Avanti!" _he cried, wearily, rubbing a hand over his tired face.

"Signorino Romano, dinner is served." the man at the door said as it creaked open, exposing a rush of cold air that needed to be much delivered to Romano in his weary state.

"I'll be right down, thank you."

There was a quiet "click" as the door closed after the butler, to which Romano flopped back wearily onto his bed. The most frustrating thing about being surrounded by darkness all the time was that you could hear and smell and taste so many things, and not see the beauty behind any of it.

That's what Romano missed the most.

**EHWS**

Spain was nowhere to be found. Romano dined by himself, feeling very foolish when more than once he missed his mouth and felt the wet, hot splatter of sauce on his pants. But it could hardly be helped, and instead he finished quickly, and excused himself for a bath. This time he had a maid draw it for him, and as she added the bottled fragrance of cinnamon and vanilla, he was suddenly reminded of his absent partner.

"_Grazie."_ Romano told the maid as she touched him on the arm, signalling she was done.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Romano stood there, smelling the sweet bath water. It brought a wave of nostalgia so deep into his body, Romano rubbed his temples and attempted to forget bath time with Spain when he was so young he could barely form coherent sentences. His country was barely 100 years old at that point, and baby fat covered almost every part of his small little boy. He remembered only the smell, and Spain's laugh that was so different from his laugh these days. Spain's laugh had been so full of culture and warmth, Romano turned at the sound of it, letting Spain thread his fingers through Romano's short hair.

Romano quickly stripped down and slipped into the warm water, letting it wash away the sweat and dirt that had collected on him during the day. He pulled the gauze carefully from his palms and left it in the pile with his clothes. His hands stung in the water, but only briefly, before he settled back onto the porcelain and let the musty air seep into his weary lungs.

It was only later that he wondered if he had slipped into a trance, a sort of quasi-sleep that he was drifting among the steam when the door to the bathroom opened and allowed Spain to slip in as quietly as if he was part of the tiled walls. Because Romano never heard him move until suddenly someone had taken his arm and was pressing delicate kisses into the crease of his elbow, as light as if the steam itself had taken form into a man.

"Antonio?"

His name slipped from Romano's mouth as quietly as a whisper, but the kisses didn't let up. Spain kissed his way from his elbow, down his arm to his very finger tips before letting go.

"Romano." Spain replied, and suddenly his fingertips were on his hands, stroking the palms out until his fingers flattened, allowing Spain to trace the lines on his palms.

"What are you doing?" Romano asked quietly, his body so suddenly sensitive to Spain's touch where it else might not be. When had his palms become so sensitive?

"Tracing your heart and life line."

Romano knew little about palm reading, but knew that was what Spain was doing. He traced lines on Romano's palm that he couldn't see, and yet it sent shivers through Romano's body.

"Your heart line can keep no secrets, can it?" Spain laughed, suddenly, and there was the feels of his fingers tracing veins and lines up his arm, pressing heady heat into his collar bone with his palms, before his fingers ghosted across his jawline and his lips.

"What secrets am I keeping?" Romano asked, but there was a brush of something else, some much softer and much hotter on his lips.

"Antonio?" he asked, feeling a flush work it's way up his body from the pit of his stomach.

"Shh shh." Spain replied, the warmth of his breath ghosting over Romano's lips, and when Romano attempted to arch into the potential kiss, Antonio pulled away.

As if compelled by an unseen force, Romano grabbed the edge of the bathtub and propelled himself to the side, searching for Antonio's face, his legs weak from the amount of blood rushing elsewhere. The dull pain that echoed up through Romano's arms from his still damaged hands rung through his head somewhere, subconsciously pushed to the side by other pleasure.

But, rewarding him for his initiative, Antonio let his fingers trip over the line of Romano's jaw, pulling him closer to his lips, coaxing them open with just the brush of his own. A deep seeded whimper escapes from Romano's chest somewhere, and Antonio rewards him for that too: he kissing him, finally, blissfully.

Romano willed himself to calm so that the heat settling and straining between his legs didn't press up so almost painfully the still cool porcelain, but that was nothing when Antonio deepened the kiss so that Romano's heart leapt up into his throat and choked him.

Heat was in his mouth from Antonio's breath, chapped lips from endless sun and wind burn. It was so very more than pleasant on Romano's suddenly oversensitive lips.

Then Antonio was gone, just the taste of spice on Romano's lips and the heat racing through his body the remainder of a man with cinnamon skin and a poison touch.

**EHWS**

_So um. . . lame update is lame. I see this all as movie in my head and I'm trying to get this down on paper as best I can. I certainly hope I don't disappoint. _


	6. To The Brink Of Disaster

His wet dreams subsided after the bathroom 'incident'. His hormones, so unused to the balance that Spain's kiss and touch had left him in, left the rest of his head alone. The day's were normal enough-Spain would lead Romano around with the same oblivious flare, polite enough to the wait staff that they willingly did whatever he asked of them, and infuriating enough to Romano that in his anger he stomped back to his room and bumped bruises into his hips over and over again.

But it seemed at every time at night, just as the house was settling and Romano was either in bed or in the bath, Spain came to him, as quiet and peaceful as a phantom floating in the empty rooms of Romano's home. He would press kisses and graceful touches into Romano's fingers and hands, arms and shoulders, neck and collar bones, to the point that Romano felt too aroused but to do much else but ache for Spain in frustrated half-kisses that left him anything but satisfied.

And then he would be gone, leaving Romano frustrated but exhausted, where he fell into a blissfully uneventful sleep.

But now Romano was desperate.

Desperate enough to call up a man he perfectly and utterly despised.

**EHWS**

"Ah, Spain, my _vieil ami~"_

"Shut the fuck up for a moment, would you, you creepy bastard?"

The quiet on the other side of the phone told Romano that France was completely and utterly taken back by the sharp tone on the other side of the phone, and unable to respond.

"Romano, I was not expecting a call from yo~"

"I said shut the fuck up for a moment alright? Just a fucking moment?"

He glared at the ceiling in France's polite silence. It was bad enough that Romano had to resort to stealing Spain's phone and had to go through it with speaker phone on to find Francis's number, it was bad enough that Romano had to resort to his _advice _on such a sensitive topic, but he felt like he had no other choice. His brother was well-meaning but dim-witted, and hardly knew the obvious feelings that that potato bastard held for him. His wait-staff was of course no help - none of them held much more than feelings of contempt for him. Beyond that. . . he trusted no one more than Spain that close to him. And it was _Spain _he needed advice on.

"Romano?" France asked after more than 2 minutes had eclipsed in the silence.

"I need advice."

He could almost hear the laughter in France's voice, and it made him want to close the phone and slam it against a wall. But he needed the advice. He hated himself for it, but he needed the advice.

"Well, the all prideful and powerful _Roma _coming to me for advice. What may I help you with?"

Romano could practically see through the phone receiver. France, leaning against his kitchen counter, cigarette smouldering in an ash tray, smirking at the absurdity as he watched his roses through a big bay window.

Romano patted his way farther into the basement. He could hardly trust his room at any time of the day; Spain seemed to be lurking whenever he retired for the evening, and he certainly didn't want him to overhear this conversation.

"I need advice on. . ." he sighed, big and heavy, "On Spain."

There was roaring laughter from the other side of the phone, causing Romano to cringe and pull the cell away from his ear. His face burned, and all his pride told him to hang up.

"Well, if you're not going to help me I'll just hang up!" he snarled into the phone.

But France quieted quickly with a "_Non, non, s'il vous plaît, _I apologize. I will. . . I will help you."

Romano waited until France's giggles subsided, the flush that had raced up his neck and face receding ever so slightly.

"Yes, Romano, what do you need to know?"

Romano sighed and rubbed his forehead listening intently for any footsteps above him or on the stairs before he started.

When it was silent, he spoke.

"I just. . . I just need to know how to seduce him."

And with that he related his entire story to France before he could interject with his roaring laughter once again. He went from the first time in the garden, with Spain holding his hand seated on the bench, all the way through to the increasing frequency of the encounters he was having, almost blindly, in his room almost every night.

Then, finally, he gave a great big exhale and quieted.

France was equally quiet, if not more, on the other side of the phone.

"Well, Romano, it does seem you are in a situation there. But, let me tell you, it's actually quiet easy to finally get your fingers around Spain, if you know what I'm saying. . ."

**EHWS**

". . . ean don't you?"

Romano gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

"Thank you," Romano said, without thinking, almost immediately after France had wrapped up his explanations in simple and curt prose.

The laugh on the other side of the phone from France was warm and smiling, realizing the slip-up just as soon as Romano had.

"You're quite welcome. And Romano?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry. Good luck."

And then France was gone. The dial tone told Romano that he had simply hung up, but something more had happened as soon as the words "I'm sorry" had fled past France's lips.

Bitter anger that had been built up in Romano after months and months of being blind simply disappeared. Romano had spent nights tossing and turning, body burning, and not from the heat that permeated through his every pore in the summer time, unable to put his finger on the boiling inside of his veins. He had been angry, so very _angry, _that he had lost his sight - a nation no less - to a foot soldier with an clumsy grip on an unfortunate blade.

All of that - gone. It simply disappeared, leaving Romano feeling a tad bit weak. His entire personality and body chemistry relied on anger, no matter the form. Losing a little bit to a simple apology left him feeling bewildered and light-headed. But he could breathe. He could breathe just a little easier, and perhaps that was the reason for forgiveness: the ability to breathe a little easier and walk a little lighter and think a little clearer.

"Romano?"

Spain's voice came from somewhere above him, his fluid voice muted by the floorboards.

Still a little bit confused, Romano dragged himself out of the hollows of the basement corners, feeling his way towards the stairs and taking careful steps until the door swung open mere inches from his nose and reaching hand.

"Romano? What are you doing in the basement?" Spain asked, his breath a little more than sour from tomatoes and from not brushing his teeth yet this morning.

"I, um, I was looking for something."

"Romano," Spain said, his voice doubting with a little more than laughs behind it. But instead of pointing out the obvious he simply skipped to the next obvious discrepancy, "Looking for something with my cell phone?"

His teasing jabs allowed Romano to snap out of his bewildered trance, and he gave Spain a look that best symbolized: 'I-would-be-rolling-my-eyes-at-you-if-I-could.'

"What time is it?" he asked, pushing past Spain as he shoved the cell phone into his palm, suddenly feeling more than tired, drained even, but in the best way.

"Just a little after 8. Are you hungry? I could fix something for you?" Spain asked, closing the door behind Romano before catching up to him with a little tug on Romano's tunic.

"No, no, I'm fine I think I'll just take a bath and go to bed," Romano said, attempting to sound as innocent about it. The part was true though, about wanting to go to bed.

"This early Romano?" Spain asked, but there was something behind his voice that said something a bit darker.

"I'm tired, why does it matter what time I go to bed? It's my own damn house," Romano grumbled, hurriedly heading for the stairs.

"Well, have a good sleep then."

There was the brief press of Spain's hand into Romano's back, too hot and too intimate to be a simple, "I'll see you later." sort of thing.

Romano hurried upstairs, throwing the bathwater on and climbing in, after discarding his clothes.

But Spain never showed. Even after Romano climbed out, dressed, and banged his knee on the trunk at the end of the bed and collapsed into bed wearing nothing more than boxers for the heat had been unbearable for the past couple of days. He tossed and turned the entire night, his body feeling out of balance and sticky, barely getting more than an hour of sleep at a clip. He was so restless he didn't even have wet dreams, though he could tell by the state of his feverish body that he would have if he had fallen into a deeper sleep.

Then, as the days passed and Spain still refused to frequent his bedroom as before - while acting as aloof as usual throughout the day - Romano grew more and more frustrated. It blurred his mind as if the sun had seeped in through his ears and melted the logical part of his brain. Seeking out France, asking his advice on how to seduce Spain - all for nothing.

Before he even knew it, Romano was planning. With a frustrated mind and body, came rash and impulsive decisions, and Romano knew it. But he was driving himself crazy as it was, frustratingly pushing him to a brink he couldn't back away from.

Something big was coming, brewing in Romano's mind and body.

Romano could hardly know that he was almost nowhere near ready for it.

**EHWS**

_All I can say is a big fat apology for my long long long long absence. I had planned on writing AT LEAST three chapters or something over the summer, and haven't gotten around to it until now! Jeez, what a bad author I am. Maybe I shouldn't pursue that career path - I have no concept of time and deadline and publishers would hate me. Thank you thank you for all those who reviewed! I would have mentioned your names above but I was just trying to rush this chapter out. It will resume the same the next chapter!_


	7. Whispers

Romano woke in the morning in a darker mood than days previous. Half-brewed schemes and plans bubbled to the surface before he quickly dismissed them. He couldn't use the help of anyone else but himself, and that was difficult as it was. Overly complicated schemes were usually his forte but. . . something seemed off. Something seemed like he was missing the bigger picture.

Rousing himself, he stabilized himself on the nightstand before (somehow) blundering to the bathroom. The heat from the sun that must have been streaming through the bathroom window hit him on the left side of his face as he went.

In that moment, simple and quiet as it was, a revelation came to him. Here he thought he was going to have to trick Spain into relieving his sexual frustration, to finagle him into figuring things out for Romano that he had almost ignored the most obvious answer of all.

The revelation shook him to the core. He doubled over, supporting himself on the toilet as it roiled over him, and when it finally settled and took root in his head, his started laughing.

He laughed so hard he started crying and when he finally recovered, he found himself on the tile floor, tilting his head towards the ceiling so that he could breathe.

"Sometimes I wonder how thick headed I am," he murmured, feeling a big stupid for not realizing it earlier.

(He wouldn't mention it to Spain later, when he asked him what drew him to his conclusion, everything but that.)

The brewing sensation? His lead up to revelation. Sometimes it was as simple as takin' a piss in the morning.

**EHWS**

Romano took his time dressing. He actually called up one of the maids to help him pick out clothing to make sure everything matched together nicely. Something in his otherwise angry demeanor must have soften her because she spoke to him in soft words and he could sense the smile in her voice when he asked her if he looked alright.

She handed him his cane, just in case, and steered him in the general direction of Spain.

Romano wasn't surprised when he found himself out in the garden. He could hear the _snip, snap _of Spain's clippers as he walked about and pruned things for the garden to slip into fall. It was still warm, but when Romano spent time in the garden as of late, it was as if all the smells of the flowers were becoming muted and took on that sickly sweet smell of flower death.

He took careful steps towards Spain, feeling his way across the obstructed path of the somewhat overgrown garden.

"Romano! Hey!"

Suddenly he froze, his heart pattering far too hard in his chest. Suddenly it seemed like not such a bright idea, and the vision he had in his head wilted and died when he was suddenly confronted with Spain's voice and smell wafting ever closer to him.

"Nice of you to join us in the world of the living," Spain said, grasping Romano around the arm and wisking him down the path to the bench.

Romano thought he was going to choke on his own stomach, which had leapt into this throat. It was now or never. Why did he always cower in the face of challenge?

As they sat, the concrete bench still warm under his bottom, Romano let his cane fall between them, putting a physical barrier between the two of them. At the very least, it helped calm Romano's hectic breathing.

"How are you on this fine morning, Romano?"

The words coming out of his mouth seemed oddly formal, but his tone was anything but - it was there in the softness and the certain way he rounded his "o"s.

"Spain?"

"_Si, Roma?" _

He was silent, attempting to find a way to express himself in Italian or Spanish or perhaps both.

Instead, he leaned on his left hand, hoping that his mouth would lead the way.

Just before he grazed his lips against the underside of Spain's jaw, Spain grasped his chin between his finger and thumb and steered him upwards instead to his lips.

He tasted like the smell of lavender, he tasted like grass and sun.

It was different than Romano was expecting. He expected Spain to taste like spices and heat, like he did when he seduced him in the bathtub, and instead he tasted just like. . . life. Like a man instead of a country with power thrumming through every inch of his fingertips.

When Spain gripped Romano's bicep, Romano slipped closer, cupped the back of Spain's neck and pulled him closer, refusing to feel embarrassed when he heard the murmurs of maids and butler somewhere behind him.

"Romano -" Spain murmured, almost trying to pull him away, but Romano was having none of it.

"Don't give me any of that 'Romano' bullshit," he answered back in a breath, and when Spain smiled Romano kissed him harder.

**EHWS**

Somewhere in between breakfast and lunch, Spain led Romano to a gazebo (_when had he put a gazebo in? It was all Spain's fault really, taking control of the estate while Romano was. . . incapacitated) _and sat him down on one of the side benches.

The air was cooler here, and tasted a bit damp and Romano realized perhaps it wasn't a gazebo on his estate, but somewhere neutral near a lake or river.

After all, they had been walking for a bit.

"Romano, Romano," Spain sighed, and Romano heard the boards creek before Spain kneeled in front of him, "You have no idea what you're getting into."

"Don't tell me what I know. I know exactly what I'm getting into," he snapped back, already irritated by the slight heat and the walk and Spain's unwillingness to touch him much more beyond his arm.

Spain took Romano's arm and pushed his sleeve up, letting his fingers linger on his forearm, before tracing his veins down to his wrist, over his Mt. Venus at the base of his thumb, all the way up to his fingertips. He repeated this a handful of times, before Romano opened his mouth to question him.

"Shh, Romano," Spain said, "Let be what will."

Puzzled, Romano let Spain do as he wanted, pushing his sleeves up and unbuttoning his shirt as he let his fingertips walk across Romano's skin.

By the time he was done, Romano was tingling from head to toe, shivers making him feel cooler than he actually was. He felt a little drowsy as it was.

"Better?" Spain asked, leaning up and wrapping his hands around Romano's wrists.

"Hmm. . ." and when Romano could finally form thoughts he said, "What was that about?"

He could feel the charged smile in the air as Spain sat next to him.

"It was about patience. Calm. Touch. You need to learn touch, Romano. You need to learn the charge it holds," he murmured.

Romano fished for Spain's hand until Spain gave it to him, and breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth.

Then, to the best of his ability, attempt to mimic Spain's touches.

He could feel the uncertainty and jerkiness in his caress, despite his best ability to remain calm.

"Breathe, Romano, breathe," Spain coached, and his mere presence was enough to calm him more, steady the shaking in his fingertips until he had repeated the same thing over Spain's forearms that Spain had repeated over his.

When he let Spain's arms go, he felt the heat stretching over the front of his pants, and grinned. Perhaps there was a plus side to being gentle as Spain has instructed.

"Spain?"

"Hmm?" he murmured, lazily, and Romano almost hated to disrupt his half-slumber to tell him he had succeeded - seducing the impossible Spain into relenting to a deeper urge.

Instead he kissed his jaw, his chin, his lips.

And this time, Spain let him.

**EHWS **

_Hehe. . . I offer my apologizes for the 6 month absence and not very rewarding chapter?_


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